Danse des petits cygnes
by criminalkeen
Summary: "Dance of the Little Swans." This year, Red asks Lizzie to go with him to the ballet, where he hopes to ask her a very important question. One-shot, established Lizzington, total fluff.


**Author's Note:** Ok, this was a plot bunny that hopped into my brain and refused to leave. The title means "Dance of the Little Swans." This is totally un-beta'd, so hopefully it's not too awful...enjoy!

* * *

**March 22, 2016**

"How are things coming, Christine?" Red asked, pressing the phone more firmly against his cheek in hopes of sealing off the earpiece from the howling wind. He used his other hand to tighten his scarf around his neck as he trudged back towards the car, the soles of his shoes becoming gradually caked with a mix of mud and icy slush. Miniature snowflakes clung stubbornly to his coat and hat, refusing to melt and thus retaining their perfect, intricate designs.

"In that case, tell your mother I'm prepared to double the usual price." He scraped his shoes on the pavement before sliding into the passenger seat next to Dembe, who was bundled in a heavy black wool coat, maroon scarf, and a fur-lined hat with earflaps. New England had been slammed with so many blizzards that the popular term "snowpocalpyse" had lost all meaning, and although the day before yesterday had marked the first day of Spring, the next storm was predicted to arrive in only a matter of hours.

"Yes, I've seen the forecast. Listen, if I have to, I'll personally see that each one of them gets home safely. This is the most important year yet," he added, in case that made any difference. He smiled when he heard the woman sigh in resignation.

"_Thank you_, Christine. I'll see you tonight." He flipped the phone shut and slipped it into his pocket, stretching his arms and extending his gloved fingertips to hover near the vents. Although the car had been idling for some time, it was putting out remarkably little heat; he could still see his breath curl away from him in soft tendrils of cloudy vapor.

"Why is this year any different?" Dembe asked curiously. He loved Raymond, he really did. But to needlessly risk both of their lives to carry on with this ritual of his…it seemed like a little much. Why couldn't he just postpone it a week?

"Because, this year I'm going to bring Lizzie," he explained, fishing in his coat pocket for the small black box that he had left tucked away there for some time. "And I have a very important question to ask her," he finished, uncurling his fingers to reveal the token to his friend.

Dembe smiled broadly and shook his head as he slid the car into gear, the tires crunching loudly against the salt-covered pavement as he pulled away from the curb.

The gesture would be mostly symbolic, of course. It's not as if they could just make an appointment with a justice of the peace. They were both wanted now, the FBI going so far as to bump No. 10 off the list in favor of the woman who had quickly become their most famous rogue agent in agency history. For Liz, running away with Raymond Reddington had been a shockingly easy decision. After all, with the loss of her father and Tom, she was truly and completely alone, with no real history, no family, no friends, no ties to anyone or anything. Except him. He had always been there for her, always listened to her, protected her and loved her like no one else had. When his immunity deal had been exposed for what it was—a sham—she knew exactly what she had to do.

It had only taken her a few weeks on the road with him to realize that his feelings for her ran much deeper than she'd originally thought...than she'd ever dared to hope for. The way he looked at her each night before they retreated to their separate rooms...like he hated to be parted from her for even those few restless hours.

It took her a little longer, however, to realize that the feeling was mutual—that No. 10 had, in fact, fallen totally, completely, and irreversibly in love with No. 4.

Liz sat curled against the arm of the beige leather couch, knees bent and legs drawn as close as possible under the warmth of the large afghan, its thick, worsted-weight yarn variegated with shades of earthy green. She had found a copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ on the bookshelf next to the fireplace and had quickly lost herself in the quaint charms of the English countryside and the pompous frivolity practiced by its residents.

She smiled when she heard the key twist in the front door lock, turning toward the entrance as Red and Dembe stomped their way inside, faces flushed, both sighing happily at the sudden onslaught of warm air. Dembe quickly kicked off his shoes and headed straight for the kitchen.

"Make three!" Red called after him, toeing off his black Oxford boots and joining Liz on the couch.

"What did Edward say?" she asked. She dog-eared the page where she'd stopped reading and set the book down lightly on the coffee table before looking at him attentively.

"All of the flights out of Reagan and Dulles are cancelled...he thinks it would be too risky for us to try leaving tonight. He said that even if he could get us off the ground, it would look awfully suspicious if we were the only plane blipping across someone's radar screen."

Liz nodded. "It's alright, I kind of like this place. It's so..._normal_." Their latest safe house was a charming little bungalow in the suburbs of Alexandria, the home of a husband and wife team that specialized in producing fake IDs and passports (two of which they were currently testing out on a weeklong vacation to Puerto Vallarta). It was a welcome departure from the stately mansions they usually stayed at, with their cold empty halls, strange art, and lavish, uncomfortable furnishings.

Red chuckled. "There's something I want to show you tonight, Lizzie, but it will require venturing out into the blizzard."

She shot him a look that clearly questioned his sanity. "Are you crazy? If we don't have to fly out tonight, then we're not going _anywhere_."

He frowned slightly as Dembe reentered the room with two steaming mugs of hot cocoa, gesturing for him to leave them on the coffee table.

"_Thank you_, Dembe," Liz said, smiling sweetly at him as she reached to take her mug. He snuck a quick wink in her direction before heading back to the kitchen.

"I have a few ideas for tonight that _don't_ involve freezing our asses off," she teased, slipping a foot from underneath the blanket and rubbing it slowly along the inside of his thigh. Without breaking eye contact she brought the cup of hot chocolate to her lips and licked a dab of whipped cream off the top seductively. She relished his reaction—the way his eyebrows shot up, the slow smile that crept across his face, the way his muscles tensed beneath her toes…but just when she thought she had him good, he stilled her foot with his hand, his expression painfully serious.

"Please, Lizzie. This is important to me."

She sighed. "What is it?"

"I can't tell you; it's a surprise."

"Well you're going to have to give me a little more than that to get me out that door and into Winter Storm Sauron, or whatever they're calling this one…"

"It's...an experience I've never shared with anyone, not even Dembe. But tonight...tonight I want to share it with you."

It was enough. She nodded, her expression an odd mixture of anticipation and surrender. "Okay," she said softly.

For _months_ she'd been begging him to let her in, to tell her more about himself and his family and what had happened all those years ago. And for months he'd been changing the subject, answering her questions with other questions, or simply uttering those conversation-ending words that she had now come to dread: "Not tonight, Lizzie." But this...this sounded promising. Maybe he was ready to open up to her at last.

They made dinner at home, waiting until the last possible moment to set foot outside the comfort of their temporary dwelling. Liz had discovered a package of noodles in the pantry as well as an unopened jar of spaghetti sauce, so pasta it was. She set a pot of water to boil as Dembe sliced a loaf of French bread and Red dragged out a step stool, hoping to peruse the limited wine selection in the cupboard above the refrigerator. As predicted, the snow was falling heavily now, already over an inch deep on the top of the patio table and showing no signs of slowing down anytime soon.

"You don't have to wear a dress," he said later as she pawed through her garment bags, searching for something to fit the occasion (whatever that was, exactly). "The wind chill out there is nearly unbearable." He finished looping his tie, tugging it gently into the perfect knot.

"It's okay, I want to." Her eyes came to rest on her "go to" little black dress—it would surely do. He watched her appreciatively as she stripped down, approaching her when she clearly needed help with the zipper. When he had finished she spun to face him, smiling as he pulled her into a tender kiss.

"I think you're really going to like this," he said hopefully.

"You know me better than I do," she laughed. "So you're probably right."

* * *

"Is there a program?" Liz asked as she shrugged out of her coat and folded it over the back of the seat next to her.

"Ah yes," he said, reaching into his inside jacket pocket and carefully unfolding the weathered paper before handing it to her. She ran her fingers over its creases as she read the cover, frowning immediately at the date printed at the top of the page: March 22, 1987.

"Red, this is almost thirty years old."

"Tchaikovsky composed _Swan Lake_ in 1876, Lizzie, and I assure you little has changed."

"But...I don't understand…"

He looked at her silently, waiting for her to piece things together much the same way she had when he'd presented her with the music box. He tilted his head as she tore her eyes away from him to examine the inside of the program, hunting for some clue or detail to explain its significance.

"Elise Le Blanc School of Ballet," she said to herself as she perused the list of dancers' names, inhaling sharply when her eyes fell on the last name _Reddington_. "This...is she...your _daughter_," she stuttered, searching his eyes for confirmation.

He sighed and leaned back in his seat, folding his hands in his lap as he turned his attention to the empty stage. "I come here every year," he said quietly.

Liz found herself unable to take her eyes off of him, even as the lights began to dim and a lone oboe began its mournful, cascading melody, echoed in turn by the rich, steady strains of the cellos. Before long, however, she became completely transfixed by the dancers and the story of a young princess who had been transformed into a swan by the curse of an evil sorcerer. It was majestic, and beautiful, and it affected her more than she would have ever expected. As Act II began with a soft tremolo from the violins, Red snuck a glance at her face, pleasantly surprised to find her cheeks streaked with tears. He slipped his hand over hers and gave it a small squeeze.

She smiled, feeling slightly idiotic. After all, shouldn't _she_ be the one consoling _him_? Perhaps not. Deep down, she knew that as invested as she was in Odette the Swan Queen's plight, it wasn't just the story that was tugging at her heartstrings. Every year, he commissioned an _entire ballet company_ to perform for an audience of one, all so he could honor the memory of his daughter...so that for one night, he could open the compartment that held the memories of her and let them roam freely through his mind. It was too much for her to handle. She let out a shaky breath as she turned her hand beneath his and threaded her fingers through his own, her gaze held by the single dancer twirling at center stage—it was the woman who played Odette, the same role that Red's daughter had earned so many years ago.

When they had made it through the finale (the powerful, haunting reprise of the swan theme reducing her to a crying, sniffling mess), Liz leapt to her feet, only vaguely aware that she looked like a crazy person as she clapped through the dancers' bows. Red was startled momentarily by her enthusiasm, looking up at her as if seeing her in a whole new light. So enraptured was she by everything that had happened that she didn't even notice when he slipped forward out of his seat, lowering himself carefully to one knee.

"Oh Red," she said, still looking towards the stage as the curtain began to close, "that was _beautiful_. I'm so glad you talked me into—" she stopped dead when, swiveling to face him, she found him kneeling beside her. "What are you doing?"

"I'm glad I talked you into it as well," he finished for her, smiling. "Lizzie, I know I haven't been particularly forthcoming with you about myself...about who I am, underneath all of this. Honestly, I could spend the _rest of my life_ telling you all there is to know about Raymond Reddington." He faltered momentarily, his brain working overtime to string words together. "And I guess... what I'm wondering is...will you give me that chance?" He opened the box to reveal a simple diamond solitaire with a white gold band—nothing even remotely ostentatious. "Thanks to you, Lizzie, I've been able to experience something I thought I would never have the pleasure of experiencing again."

"And what would that be?" she said softly, her eyes brimming with tears.

"Falling in love." Her expression was threatening to undo him, and he paused for a few seconds to compose himself. "I love you, Lizzie. More than you know…more than I could ever express in words. Will you marry me?"

Instead of waiting for him to stand, she sunk to her knees as she nodded her assent. "Yes! _Yes_. A thousand times yes." He slipped the ring on her finger, pulling her into a hug as she wrapped her arms tightly around his neck. After some time she pulled back to examine the ring, smiling at its delicate simplicity. "I suppose this was forged in the fire of some volcano on the island of Java, right?"

Red laughed. "The first thing you should know about me, Lizzie, is that I'm much more ordinary than you think. I'm the kind of man who enjoys eating at the most expensive restaurants in the most exotic locations, but if you ask me what my favorite meal is, I'll recite to you my great grandmother's lasagna recipe that's been passed down for five generations."

She chuckled as she reached to wipe a tear from beneath his eye, letting her fingers trail lightly down his cheek. "In that case, the first thing you should know about me is that I'm never going to leave you. No matter how hard it gets…no matter how dangerous. I promise you that."

Red smiled sadly. He would never deserve her, that much he knew.

"Come on," he said, taking her hand and helping her up. "Dembe's waiting with the champagne. Then I think we should get to _your_ list of activities for the night…" He winked as he offered her an elbow; she looped her arm through his as they made their way out of the theatre and into the snowy night (suddenly, it didn't feel nearly as cold).

_The end._


End file.
